The intended purpose of this daily journal is to keep things real and in proper perspective presenting the difference between the life of a true messenger and everyone else. The difference is… Nothing!
I am as mortal as anyone else is. The only difference is that I have been given the ability to remember things about our pre-mortal existence and other lifetimes that help me to understand my role and perform it properly. Now, this is not to say that I’ve always wanted to perform it… and it is not to say that I’ve always performed it properly. I’ve had my Jonah Complex at times. I gave up the role in 1991 for over 12 years, and recently, I wanted to give it up again (more on this in another journal entry).
What the world doesn’t know is how others live who make claims similar to those I have made. Who really knows those who claim to be guided by an outside force or intelligence? What lifestyle do they live? What do they think on a day-to-day basis?
As I have been mandated, I’m to share most, if not all, of the personal day-to-day experiences I have while performing this role.
So, let me tell you how I became a Utah resident once again:
The State of Utah requires two kinds of address verifications, showing that one lives at the address one is using to get a driver’s license. I had no verification of where I lived in Orem until the State of Utah finally sent me a letter demanding payment of past child support. As soon as I received the letter, I immediately wanted to comply with the law and change my Minnesota license to a Utah one. (This to take away another trumped-up charge the State might pursue against me. One must change one’s license when one moves to Utah.)
The day the letter came, I hadn’t showered for a few days and my hair looked the part. I thought about finally having a driver’s license photo that looked par for my course—hair a mess and a couldn’t-care-less attitude. 
Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized it was my ego and pride that wanted me to look different than the politicians, businessmen, models, missionaries, and any other man who cared what he looked like.
So,
I decided to set aside my pride and ego and wash my hair before I went to the DMV for my new license.
I finished my shower, towel-dried my hair and realized I didn’t have any way to get to the DMV located a few miles away except walk or ride my bike. Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized that I could blow dry my hair to make it look nice. Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized that the wind could dry my hair without wasting electricity. Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized that riding my bike in mid-90’s weather would dry my hair very well for the occasion.
I put on some shorts and a t-shirt and my trusty fanny pack. Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized my feet needed a tan so I decided to wear my sandals. I went to get my bike and found out I had a flat tire. My bike is a male’s bike. Sheri’s bike is a girl’s bike. Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized that I might as well take Sheri’s bike since I was ready to go.
I got on Sheri’s bike and found that my knees were pretty much at much chest (“Damn!” I thought, “I need to raise Sheri’s seat”). Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized that I didn’t want to raise Sheri’s seat from where she had it so that it would stay where she liked it.
So there I was:
Wet hair, a t-shirt, shorts and sandals riding a girl’s bike with my knees almost hitting my chest as I rode along. “Gee!” I thought, “This hot weather is going to really dry my hair fast!”
I went in the direction of the address I found for the Orem DMV on the Internet. By the time I reached the general area, the DMV was nowhere in sight. Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized that two construction men working near the area on the freeway might know more than me; so I approached them with my long, beautiful hair blowing in the wind, my t-shirt, shorts and sandals… and of course, my trusty fanny pack.
People always look at me differently anyway, so the smiles on these two men’s faces and their look of bewilderment… I didn’t take much notice of. I asked them where the DMV was located and they almost couldn’t answer through their smiles, trying all along to be respectful of me as another man… I think. Well, I didn’t think much about it at the time. They gave me directions and I didn’t look back to notice what their impressions might have been as I rode off in the direction they had given me.
I was about ½ mile from the DMV. I finally arrived at the DMV on a girl’s bike, in shorts and sandals, in a t-shirt, and wearing my trusty fanny pack. I didn’t notice the looks on the people arriving in their cars and yielding to me on Sheri’s bike. I found a bike rack and locked up the bike.
Just before I entered the building through the glass doors, I saw my reflection.
My hair couldn’t have had more body. I looked like Captain Caveman!
Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized…
… I couldn’t have cared less.
So, I walked in. I had to wait in a line for about an hour. Yes, I noticed that everyone who was waiting in the line and in the seating area were staring at the sight before their eyes… if they only knew what the disheveled man rode in on!
I finally made it to the photo booth.
Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized…
… I still couldn’t have cared less.
But the State of Utah did.
“Do you want to brush your hair down a bit?” inquired the patient DMV agent.
Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized that I didn’t have a brush.
I ran my fingers through my hair and when I got to the end strands, I held on to my hair and forced it to lay flat against my head.
Then I smiled my patented “I couldn’t care less” smile.
I waited until my name was called to get my temporary license. I approached the numbered window and was greeted by a broadly smiling lady. (I wasn’t holding my hair down any longer.) She courteously helped me and I was on my way.
I stuffed my new Utah Temporary Driver’s License in my trusty fanny pack, unlocked Sheri’s bike, got on it and rode back home.
I was sweating profusely when I got home. On the way to the DMV it was downhill… back home was uphill!
I pulled out the Utah license and looked at it thinking, “Oh my God! I’m a legal Utah resident again!”
I looked at the picture…
I retraced the events of the last three hours and wondered how I must have appeared to the world riding a girl’s bike in shorts, t-shirt and sandals, with my trusty fanny pack, long, bushy hair blowing in the wind. I wondered what the two men were thinking whom I asked for directions. I wondered what the people were thinking when I rode up on a bike and entered the building. I wondered what the people (of Orem, Utah) were thinking who spent a couple of hours in the presence of Captain Caveman.
I wondered about it all… then I smiled.
Well, I thought about it a few minutes and realized…
… I couldn’t have cared less what anyone thought. I didn’t think about it while the events were taking place and I wouldn’t give it another thought then.
I was a Utah resident living in the most LDS-concentrated area in the world!
I was a chosen true messenger mandated to live among these people and give them the opportunity to know the real truth through this Marvelous Work and a Wonder.®
Well, I thought about it a few minutes…
… and wondered:
Did Jesus ever ride a girl’s bike?
Here’s the result of that experience.
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